


New York Presbyterian

by CharielDreemur



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Bono's feeling bad about himself and he shouldn't, Don't ask me how, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, also Ali best girl, and somehow I managed to write this whole thing in a day, can I have more please where did you get them, someone put motivational/inspiration drugs in my cereal, we all love him, yeah for some reason I was just feeling angsty and I decided to write about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharielDreemur/pseuds/CharielDreemur
Summary: Bono has his cycling spill in New York and has been having trouble not feeling bad about himself. Fortunately, he has a lot of people around him that love and care for him, if only he could see it.
Relationships: Bono/Ali Hewson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	New York Presbyterian

**Author's Note:**

> Yeaaaah so all of the sudden this idea popped into my head and I just started working on it after I ate my breakfast and somehow I ended up writing nearly 4000 words in a single day which I've never done before. So that's pretty cool, I'm proud of myself for that. Like I said in the tags, someone put motivation and inspiration drugs in my cereal and I have to ask them, why did you just *now* do that? And where did you get them?  
> Also this is the first story I've written that I'm posting online so that's cool. I actually write a lot, I just never publish it. But I'm doing that now!  
> So uhh without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

It was chilly out but he wore a jacket. A black leather jacket, those were his favorite kind. The path was clear, full of trees, plants, bushes, shrubbery. A beautiful day, pun unintended. It was nice, he observed, the leaves on the trees, turning brown, with some resisting. _The leaves always turn brown in the fall,_ he thought. _For some reason, they just always do that. Like destiny or something, an inescapable fate, yet some always resist. They resist something they know will probably happen to them anyway. Why? If green leaves on trees mean that everything is healthy and happy and thriving, and leaves turning brown and falling off means they’re all dying, then maybe they’re trying to resist the darkness that winter brings. Trying to stay positive in the midst of an almost certain fate._

He smiled. He could hear someone, perhaps a friend, teasing him. _Only you could turn something as mundane as the trees turning colors into a philosophical dilemma about life!_

That could also be something to write about. _A great theme,_ he thought. _Standing tall in the face of the almost certain._

He noticed other things, as he pedaled down the path. Lakes, people lying on grass, picniking, plants, shrubbery, dead leaves, sticks which a gentle breeze would lift up. Sunlight filtered down where there weren’t too many trees, bathing him in a gentle warm hug. He liked feeling the gentle pull of his muscles as he pedaled. 

He smiled, again. Everything was right with the world. Life was good. 

As he pedaled, he came upon a hill. There was no one around him, the path was empty. Smiling, and feeling rather daring, always ready for an adrenaline kick, he pedaled harder, harder, harder, as fast as he could. 

He approached the hill, and with one last pedal, he went sailing down. It was exhilarating, just like he knew it would be. The wind in his hair, everything beside him passing like a blur. It was like a rollercoaster, he wanted to lift his arms and cheer. Lift his hands he did not, but he did cheer. 

“Wooooo!” he yelled. He was smiling. Laughing. Cheering. Happy that he was by himself because he knew nobody would’ve let him do it. 

_They’re always so worried about me._

_They’re always so worried._

He was enjoying the moment so much, in so much bliss, that he almost didn’t notice something appear in the corner of his vision.

Then he did. 

_A person,_ he realized. _Wait, a person!_

 _“Watch out!”_ he yelled. The person was fast approaching. He was going too fast. Way too fast. He couldn’t stop. 

All of the sudden he realized just how many things he shouldn’t have done. He, like those leaves on the tree, was trying to stop the inevitable. 

_Where did that person come from?_

_I thought I was alone._

_I’m going to hit them._

_Get out of the way!_

_Stop!_

_No no no!_

The thoughts came at lightning speed, but they were futile.

He yanked his handlebars in one direction. He swerved. He wasn’t seeing anymore. Were his eyes squeezed shut? He heard the tires squealing. 

Metal clanging. 

Bike impacting on pavement.

Pavement. 

Ground. 

Something cracking.

Pain shot through him. 

Excruciating. 

He struggled to make sense of what was happening. 

_Why… so much pain…? If all I did was… fall…_

Leather tearing. 

_Leather? Why…_

_Another bike clanging…_

_Someone screaming._

_Footsteps approaching…_

_“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_A gasp._

_“Oh my God, his-!”_

_“I’m calling an ambulance!”_

_“Hold on!”_

_Darkness._

~~

A woman burst into the hospital room. Heels clacking over blue and beige tile, she ran up to the glass. The glass separating the viewing area from the operating room. 

And there he was, lying on the bed, surrounded by doctors, hooked up to machines. She wanted so badly to hold his hand, but of course she couldn’t. The doctors were in there, trying their best. And it would be okay. It would have to be okay. There was no other way it could go. 

She watched them. They were operating on his arm. His face was bruised and bandaged. 

She turned to the man standing next to her, a great friend to both of them. He wore a black hat, as it seemed he always did. He held his arms out, and, without really meaning to, she fell into them. At first, she just stood there, looking through the window as they hugged each other, but then the tears came. Silently at first, as they rolled down her face but then out loud as she just couldn’t help it anymore. 

_How could he hurt himself this badly?_

_Was it really going to be okay?_

_Would he be okay?_

A doctor came into the room. The woman looked up, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She knew she looked pretty bad, eyes red and puffy, cheeks still wet. _But this is a hospital. Doctors are probably very much used to seeing this._

“You’ll have to go back out to the family lounge now,” the doctor said. “We’ll come out and tell you when there’s any updates.” 

“But-” the woman started to say. She didn’t want to leave him. 

“It’ll be okay,” the doctor said, giving a little smile. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We just need this space for us right now. But I promise whenever something happens you’ll be the first to know about it.” 

She sighed, but knew there was no use in fighting. 

The room they were in was dark. Or at least it certainly felt like it. It was empty too, save for the occasional janitor or desk person outside. It was late at night, but she had no idea what time it was. There wasn’t a clock nearby, and she didn’t care enough to get up and find one. 

And if she did, she might miss a doctor coming to tell her something. 

All she knew was that she had been sitting there for many agonizing hours. 

The chairs were uncomfortable. The coffee was too weak and by now too cold but she drank it anyway. Something to do. 

A TV hung on the wall, providing the only kind of light in their part of the room. It lit the room in dark blue, and painted shadows along the walls. The news was on, headlines and news reporters passing by silently as captions quickly scrolled by. 

Some stuff was mundane, like “ _cast of The Hunger Games crashes SNL!”_ or _“Florida fires head coach.”_ It was nice to see them though. Normal, mundane stuff is what she needed right now, whenever everything felt like it was spiraling out of control. 

Some other stuff was disturbing. _“170 sickened on cruise ship,” or “man pushed to death on subway platform.”_ Especially _“ISIS terrorist beheads American hostage on video.”_

She looked away. _Why,_ she thought, _can terrible people get away with such terrible things but a good person, who smiles and laughs, and only tries to help people, can end up in a situation like this?_

She looked around for something to distract her from the headlines. The chairs all had stickers on them. _“Property of New York Presbyterian Hospital”_ and _“Please don’t remove this chair from this room.”_

She looked out the doors into the hallway. Nothing. She could hear distant footsteps and distant, muffled conversations but nothing that seemed relevant to her. 

She sighed, and rested her head in her hands for a minute. Her brain was fried. She was so tired, so tired from sitting and pacing and worrying for hours. So tired from drinking that terrible cold coffee. But she was so anxious that she couldn’t possibly sleep, even if she were handed the world’s most comfortable bed. She wanted to jump out of her skin. 

She just needed to know he was okay. 

More headlines passed by, more reporters repeating their silent words as the captions fought to keep up. Then, once again, a headline caught her eye, this one standing out more than all the other ones. It hurt so much to look at it, it felt like a gut punch. And it just made it more real. 

“U2’S BONO INJURED, UNDERGOING SURGERY AT NEW YORK CITY HOSPITAL”

“Now they all know,” she said, laying her head on the black-hatted man’s shoulder. She felt the tears threatening to come again. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “What is he going to do?” 

He put his arm around her. “I’m sure everything’s gonna be okay. He looks bad now, but that’s just now. We’ve got the best doctors and surgeons in the world to help us. To help him. And you know him, he’s a fighter. He’s not gonna let something like this stop him.”

“I’m just worried,” she said, sniffling. “I’m worried about what this is going to do to him mentally. He’s not going to like sitting around and not doing anything. He’s not going to like not being able to go out and meet people, not being able to perform, sing, meet the fans. You know he loves that kind of stuff. He’s going to feel like he let everyone down.” 

“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “Well it’s our job to make sure he doesn’t beat himself up too badly.” 

“Yeah,” she said, but she still wanted to cry. “I guess that’s all we can do.” 

More hours dragged by. More headlines, more pacing, more uncomfortable chairs that were seriously starting to make her back hurt, more weak coffee that tasted terrible.

Then finally the door opened and a doctor came in. 

“Hewson?” the doctor asked. 

The woman sat up, heart rate rising. “Yes, that’s me.” 

She held the black-hatted man’s hand and tried to prepare herself for whatever the doctor could say. 

“We’ve finished the surgery,” he said. “He had multiple injuries that needed surgery, including a-” he looked down at a paper he was holding, “left facial fracture, a left scapula fracture, and a left compound distal humerus fracture where his humerus bone was broken in six places. He’ll also need another surgery tomorrow on his hand to repair a fracture of his fifth metacarpal.” 

“So… uh… what does that mean?” 

“Right. So basically, he fractured a bone in his eye, a bone in his shoulder blade, and his elbow was fractured in six places. And he also fractured the bone on his hand just below his pinky finger.”

“So... is he going to be okay?” she asked. 

“Well,” the doctor said. “He’s going to need a lot of intensive and progressive therapy but at this point in time we are expecting a full recovery.” 

“Well, that’s great news right?” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That he’ll make a full recovery?” 

“See? I told you it would be alright,” the black-hatted man said. “A little physical therapy isn’t gonna stop him.” 

“You need to stop letting him get so banged up though,” the doctor said with a smile. 

“Yeah,” the woman said, smiling for what felt like the first time in ages. “Sometimes I don’t think he realizes he’s not invincible.” 

“It’s like he sees his body as an inconvenience,” the black-hatted man said. “Like, there are so many things he’d _like_ to do but that pesky little human body of his won’t let him.” 

The woman stood up from her chair. “How long have we been sitting here?” she asked as she stretched. “It feels like it’s been _hours.”_

“Well the surgery lasted about five hours,” the doctor said. “It’s getting close to midnight now.” 

“Can we see him?” she asked. 

“You can, but he won’t be awake,” the doctor said. 

“I just want to see him,” she said. 

The doctor led them into the room. There he was, lying on the bed. There were so many machines around him, and so many noises coming from them. The beat from the heart rate monitor was steady and when she looked at him, she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He looked almost peaceful, as if he were just sleeping. But of course he wasn’t. Bandages covered his bruised and discolored face. There was some sort of metal contraption on his arm, that ran from his shoulder to his wrist, keeping it in place. 

She felt her eyes watering all over again. It hurt so much to see him like this. 

_Why? Why do you do these dangerous things?_

“Can I hold his hand?” she asked the doctor. 

“His right hand should be okay,” he said. 

She pulled up a chair next to his bed and sat down. She leaned against his shoulder and gently took his hand in hers. The rhythm of his breathing was so relaxing, _up… down… up… down…_ that she could’ve fallen asleep right there if she were allowed to. She closed her eyes, exhaling a long breath like she’d been holding it in the entire time, and smiled. He was okay now, or at least it seemed like the worst had passed. She squeezed his hand. 

“Hey,” she said. “If you can hear me, it’s Ali. I’m here.” 

~~

“So they’re calling it a ‘high energy bicycle accident’,” he said. “How pathetic does that sound?” 

“Oh come on, it’s not pathetic,” she said. 

“Yes it is. What kind of fifty-four year old man falls off his bike and ends up like this? It’s pathetic.” 

“Stop _saying_ that!” she said, lightly swatting his right arm. “And besides, you didn’t just fall off your bike. You were going very fast, down a hill. And then you violently swerved and-” she sighed. “Just please stop saying that about yourself.” 

He sighed, like there was more he wanted to say but didn’t. 

“So…” she said. “You really don’t remember?”

“No,” he said. “The last thing I remember was just riding. And I was thinking about how beautiful everything looked, like all the nature and people just enjoying themselves. And I felt really happy, everything felt perfect. And then I saw a hill and- I thought it would be fun to see how fast I could go, and- and-” 

“Okay, stop,” she said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, you don’t need to remember. Maybe it’ll come back to you in time.” 

He didn’t say anything else and just stared straight ahead for a minute. 

“Oh, Ali!” he burst out suddenly, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry! I’m always worrying everyone around me for the stupid things I do. And you tell me I shouldn’t do them but I don’t listen and I do them anyway because I think you’re just worrying too much. And then stuff like this happens!” 

“Shh… shh…” she said, holding his hand. “It’s okay…” 

“I’m such an idiot…” he said. 

“You’re not an idiot. Stop talking about yourself like that.” 

“I guess it's true that you really do know how to look out for me better than I can look out for myself. What would I do without you?” 

“You just need to realize you’re not invincible. You’re a very strong and amazing person but you have your limits.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know.” He went quiet for a moment, like he was thinking. “By the way,” he said, “what happened to my jacket? I liked that one.”

She laughed. “Do you really wanna know?” 

“Yeah, I asked.” 

“Okay, smarty pants,” she said, swatting him. “Well they said that when your elbow shattered, the bone broke through your skin and tore a hole in it. So basically your bone was poking out of your jacket.” 

“Oh,” he said. “Well I guess that’s pretty punk rock isn’t it?” 

She laughed. Even in the condition he was in, he could still make jokes. 

“Well that sucks. I liked that one.” 

“Don’t you have enough?” 

“No!” he said, pretending to be hurt. 

She laughed. “Okay, okay. Sorry.” 

“Well anyway…” He yawned. “I think I’m gonna get some rest.” 

“You do that,” she said. “You definitely need it. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

“You always are,” he said sleepily. “Your patience with me is amazing sometimes.” 

“Oh, stop it,” she said, smiling. “Get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

~~

He stared at the screen. At the words on the screen. At the black line blinking in front of the words he typed. At the publish button. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to publish the words he’d written. Doing that would make it real. Well, more real than it already was. 

_“Recovery has been more difficult than I thought. As I write this, it’s not clear I will ever play guitar again.”_

He kept staring at it. At the blinking line. Then he looked over at his Gretsch in the corner of the room. Oh, how he wished he could finger the frets of it and play music again. To hear the chords ring out as he created some new melody. And how he would hum along, improvising words to sing. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything now. 

He stared back at the screen.

_“I have cancelled every public appearance and decided this missive is all the communication I can manage for the first half of 2015.”_

He hated that too. He hated not going out there. Not performing. Not singing. Not getting to meet the people who had allowed him to do all those things he loved in the first place. He _wanted_ to be there. 

He sighed and looked at the screen again. It was still waiting for him to publish it. But he couldn’t do it. He knew how disappointed everyone would be. How he had let everyone down. How could he have been so stupid? And so reckless?

_“As I write this, it’s not clear I will ever play guitar again.”_

The words kept staring back at him. 

_“It’s not clear I will ever play guitar again.”_

_“It’s not clear I will ever play guitar again.”_

Suddenly the words came off the page and swarmed around him, each a terrible chorus of voices that yelled into his ear louder than the last one. 

_“Not clear, not clear, not clear…”_

The voices bounced around in his head like super-powered springs. 

_“Not clear, not clear, not clear, notclearnotclearnoclear…”_

_“I will never play guitar again…”_

_“Never, never, never, nevernevernever…”_

_“Never play, never play…”_

_“You will never play…”_

He looked over at his guitar in the corner, now it seemed to be laughing at him. Taunting him. As if just by sitting there it was enough to remind him of all that had gone wrong. 

He stared back at the screen. The screen was taunting him now too. 

_“You will never play… you will never play…”_

There was a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. 

Looking around, everything was normal. His screen was normal, the words sitting there plainly. His guitar was sitting in the corner quietly. The voices had stopped. 

He looked up. “Ali,” he said and smiled. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

“No,” he said honestly. “I just- I can’t publish this. I hate not being able to go out and do anything. I miss everybody. And I just know I’ve disappointed everybody with my stupid stunts. I’ve let everyone down.” 

“Come on, you know that’s not true,” she said. “You know you guys have the best fans in the world. You say it all the time. They’ll understand. And I’m sure they’re more than happy to wait as long as they need to for you to get better.” 

“It’s not just that though…” he said and looked away. “What if… what if…” His lip trembled. He couldn’t say it. “What if… what if I really can’t play guitar again? What if I’ll really never be able to play it ever again? What if it’s really over just like that? What if…”

“Shh…” she said, taking his hand. She climbed onto the bed and gently rested her head on his right shoulder. “The man I know never lets anything stop him. He’s ambitious, headstrong, maybe a little arrogant, and he thinks the best way to solve problems is to go through them. And it’s worked out extremely well for him. Nothing stops you when you put your mind to something and I think that’s amazing. I love that about you.” 

“Ali…” He looked at her. She was so beautiful, with her brown eyes, her flowing brown hair, her patient smile. Why was she always there for him constantly? And why was she so patient? Everytime he did something stupid, she was always there, ready to offer comfort and reassurance. Never judgement. And she was always so patient. And understanding. Always. He didn’t deserve her. 

“I just feel so useless. All I can do is sit here. I can’t even help out with the band. What if the quality of our music goes down? What if it’s all my fault?” 

He felt his eyes fill with tears even though he tried to stop them. 

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Please.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You know that’s not going to happen. You’re amazing, and the rest of them think so too. Do you think they would like hearing you say that?” 

He looked away. 

“Just stop punishing yourself like this. It’s not fair to you.” She sighed. “And, I was reading an article earlier where apparently one of America’s best elbow specialists said that playing guitar is the perfect kind of physical therapy for this kind of injury. So who knows?” She kissed him on the cheek. 

“All I know is that, whether you can play guitar or not, you’re still amazing and I still love you and so does everyone else.” 

She got off the bed. “And hey, maybe you should try writing a song. You always did like that. I remember you being pretty good at it too.” She giggled. “I’m going to let you rest and make something to eat. Do you want anything?” 

“No, no thank you.” 

“Okay,” she said and left. 

He stared back at the computer screen. The words were still there. It still hurt to read them or acknowledge them. But they didn’t surround him or start yelling or taunting him. 

He took a deep breath and hit publish. With that done, he closed his laptop and put it to the side. He closed his eyes and laid his head back for a moment. He let out a breath. It was done.

Then he looked over at his songwriting book on his nightstand. He reached over to grab it, wincing. It hurt, but he had it in front of him. Small victories. He opened it to a blank page and stared at it, holding a pen in his hand. 

_What do I even write about?_

But then he thought about it. He remembered his ride, acknowledging all the trees and the bushes and beautifulness of nature. He remembered looking at the trees and seeing the leaves turning brown and falling off. But some were still green, holding on, resisting. 

_Maybe,_ he thought. _Maybe the leaves aren’t resisting the inevitable, but are fighting back. They know they’re probably going to turn brown and fall off but they’re going to hold on as long as they can. They aren’t going to go down without a fight._

_Maybe…_

He looked at the paper, and with a new sense of determination, he started to write. 

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go! I hope you enjoyed and didn't cry too much ;)  
> I will probably never get that burst of inspiration/motivation ever again but hey it was nice to get something out of it.  
> And also yes, in case you were wondering (which you probably weren't), those were all real headlines. I did some internet magic and went to the Wayback Machine to see what various news sites looked like on that date.  
> Maaaaagic


End file.
